Recognition
by chocolafied
Summary: In the twilight hours of the morning, Alfred sits awake, unable to sleep. Maybe the War for Independence is pointless after all...


_So this is basically a pointless idea that popped up in my head while listening to **Brick by Boring Brick **by **Paramore**  
Hope this is somewhat good =w=;;;  
Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome *tired smile*  
'Nigh~- *falls asleep*_

* * *

_**1778 ~ Outside of Chatsworth **_

Alfred sat, unable to sleep much, his musket leaning on his left shoulder with his arm leaning on it. Looking down, the blue eyed man with ever so light brown hair, almost looking blonde, sat on a log, deep in thought. He was losing the war, and the thought scared him. He might not ever get his freedom, something that he wanted ever so much.

Hearing a soft set of footsteps walk across some grass snapped him back to reality. He looked up, seeing that it was one of his troops. A farmer that wanted could barely fight, yet he did, wearing a bloodied bandage on his upper arm by his left shoulder, his face brown from gunpowder and dirt, and he had a little bit of a limp from spraining his ankle when running from the British in retreat. He got caught in a ditch and twisted his ankle, almost dying, and yet, he was still there.

"Morning, sir," he spoke quietly, not wanting to wake up the other soldiers that could actually sleep through the night. Alfred nodded he head towards him, acknowledging that he heard him.

"Morning," America replied, looking down at the ground once more.

The soldier observed him, squinting his eyes somewhat. "Something troubling you, Sir?" he inquired, concerned for his leader. Alfred looked up, smiling weakly at the man.

"Nothing that I can't deal with," he replied. The soldier smiled lightly.

"Can't wait 'till the war's over, Sir." The soldier started talking once more, looking up to see the morning stars starting to fade away with the morning sun starting to arrive, pink filling the dawn sky. "My wife and kids will be able to live their lives however they want. And even if I die," he looked down at America, smiling still, though now it carried a bit of sadness to it. "I want them to have that."

Alfred's eyes widened at this, absorbing in what the man was saying.

The image of England on the ground, crying before him in the rain with him looking down at him sorrowfully consumed his conscious, subconsciously making his eyes widen even more. He remembered the feel of cold and wet dirt clinging to his uniform and limbs, the feeling of the ice cold rain on him, the pain that he felt…

Quickly snapping out of it, he looked back down at the ground again._ Freedom…_ _He wants freedom, for his family…I started this war because of some selfish desire…but I'm not the only one who wants it…_ Alfred looked back up at the man, who was now looking as the rising sun.

"Beautiful, isn't it, Sir?" he asked, not looking at his commanding officer this time. There was a bit of a pause; Alfred stared at the warm glow of the sun for a few seconds before responding.

"Yeah…it is."

The trumpet sounded off, and slowly, one by one, the troops rose from their deep slumbers. One soldier, ran over to Alfred and the other soldier, holding the trumpet and wearing the black triangle-shaped hat, saluting the light brown haired man.

"Sir, it's morning. We should get a move on as soon as possible." He spoke, still standing at attention with his eyes looking at what was straight ahead of him. America looked up to the man, staring at him for a moment before finally getting up.

"Yeah, we should," he responded, looking directly at the rising sun that was now about half way over the horizon. "Assemble the troops. We're going to Williamsburg. Washington's going to be there. We're going to back him up."

"Yes, Sir," was the only reply that came out of the soldier's mouth before he began quickly walking back to the group of troops, waking up any that were still asleep and barking orders at them.

"Thames," he said to the other soldier. Thames looked at him.

"Yes, Sir?" he asked, ready for any order that came his way.

"I'm promoting you to Corporal. Lead the wounded back to Chatsworth with Robinson to get medical treatment, including for yourself and that's an order."

Thames stared at him before nodding his head, smiling somewhat on the inside and a little bit on the outside. "Yes, Sir." He then proceeded to walk off, shouting for all of the wounded that could still walk and about 15 that were still in good condition to assemble before him.

Alfred continued to stare at the sun, the sky now a pale blue, the same color as his eyes. The wind rolled in, ever so light and gentle. He turned his head to the left, seeing his men at the ready to march, muskets held across their bodies with both hands. The American flag rose in the air, battered, torn and stained. America looked back at the sun. "Forward, march!" he shouted, now holding his rifle with his right hand, down at his side as he started walking, the one hundred and fifty troops under his command following him.

The sun seemed to give him new energy, new hope. After hearing what Thames had said, the war didn't seem pointless anymore. Too many people died for him to stop now. The drum started playing in the background, along with the singing of a flute. Off they marched, to back up Washington and his troops for the next big fight.


End file.
